He lost their trail within a few hours due to rains and wind, so he took a long swing south, riding late in the evening and at night. On the second day after leaving the Indians he came up with the trail of the Shabbitt outfit. They were headed west, following the usual trail, but here and there they left sign enough to indicate they were doing a lot of scouting… scouting for the wagon trail McKaskel would leave.
He checked all their campsites with care. There were only seven of them now… he had his own vague recollection of a difficulty with Pangman. Somehow, when wandering and delirious, they had met.
Pangman’s tracks were missing, and Vallian had two loads gone from his six-shooter. As bad off as he must have been, he had obviously been good enough.
At the fourth camp he checked, he found that they had camped by a stream. It was a small one, and even he had not been aware of its existence. He went over the camp with care, and his attention paid off.
He found some bloody rags first, probably a bandage Booster McCutcheon had used on his face. And then he found the tin boat, bent out of shape and cast aside. They had camped on the edge of a stream, and without doubt they had found the boat there, where it had floated down from above.
What followed next needed no guess work. When the Shabbitt outfit rode out they rode northwest.
Most of their riding had been done after the rains had passed and their trail could be followed even by night. He rode swiftly, only pausing to rest his mustang from time to time.
It was none of his affair in one sense, but in another it was. He had advised the McKaskels, helped them, eaten their bread and food, drunk their coffee. He was not a man to take such things lightly.
On the first day he rode thirty miles, on the second he covered fifty. The Shabbitt outfit had a tough trail to find, and were probably riding by guess as much as by sight. He had no such problem. If he could find the Shabbitt bunch he would either find the McKaskels or he would discover what had happened to them.
Before him loomed the eastern wall of the mountains, cut by deep canyons, furrowed by lesser ravines, openings that gave on to lovely mountain meadows or to tumbling cataracts. They might have gone into any one of them.
Yet he knew that most people, traveling in the wilds, will follow the line of least resistance. This would be especially true of a man traveling with a wagon and a family. So Con Vallian took his time.
The change had been abrupt. From the short grass country he had suddenly ridden into a sub-alpine world where the grass was richer and the wild flowers everywhere. There were scattered stands of ponderosa and from time to time he drew up to scan the country ahead.
Any tracks would be washed out or damped down by subsequent rains, but to pass through a country and leave no mark of one’s passing is nearly impossible. Peering from under the brim of his hat, he studied the lay of the grass, the possible ways a wagon might have taken.
They had made a mistake by coming in close to the mountains because if they wished to go to Cherry Creek they must follow along the mountains which meant crossing many gullies or canyons where the streams flowed from the higher country. Yet it was the mountains toward which they were bound, and it might be they would turn off.
He scanned the area thoughtfully, looking for some favorable opening into the back country. Then he started on, casting about for a lead. Under the aspens and close to their groves were stands of golden cinquefoil, and in the groves a bit further along, columbine. Often they were mixed with other flowers. The grass was wet from heavy dews or what was left of the recent rains.
He worked his way along the edge of the forest, riding in and out of the trees, weaving a careful way, alert for ambush and any sign of travel. He saw the fresh droppings of deer and elk, he saw where a bear had clawed high upon a tree… only hours ago, by the look of it, and once he found a lion kill, half-eaten and buried under brush.
Unconsciously he had worked his way higher upon the mountain, following the easiest route, yet aware that one can often see tracks from up high that would be missed on the ground and close by.
He was emerging from a stand of spruce when he caught a glimpse of movement… several riders, rifles in hand, moving along an open meadow at a lope.
“Shabbitt!” He swore softly. Even at the distance he could recognize several of them, and it was equally obvious that they were going somewhere, not just wandering or searching. Then, faintly, his eyes seemed to pick up the track of a wagon!
He stood up in the saddle and tried to see along the slope to his right. They were riding into a gap in the hills where the wagon, if those really were tracks and not his imagination, had gone. They rode as if expecting trouble.
Turning his mount, he rode swiftly along the mountain side in their direction, and cutting down through the trees, although keeping under cover, he came upon a game trail.
It was a chance, and he took it, knowing at the same time that many such trails can be useless for horses. A deer, holding its head low, can often go under limbs and brush that a horse must skirt around… and often enough the hillside is too steep for such travel.
Suddenly, ahead of him, he saw a thin trail of smoke. There was no way he could arrive before the Shabbitt outfit. No way at all.
They were closing in on the place below, riding up the stream… yet, looking at it from above he could see they must slow down, for soon there would be no good way to go unless they took to the water. Even then their progress would be slowed.
Far off to his left now he could see a dim trail that led up the canyon, and the place to which they seemed to be going lay due north from where he now was.
Here and there the growth thinned down and it was becoming more and more difficult to keep out of sight. He shucked his rifle, holding it ready in his hands. One man alone against seven, he must trust to surprise.
He dipped down through the trees, crossed a low saddle and down to a bench. Unknown to him he was coming in to the cabin from the east and was riding down to the bench where Duncan McKaskel had pastured his mules.
Emerging from the aspens, he drew up, listening. He had gotten a little ahead of them, for they had to skirt deadfalls and driftwood, and the footing along the rocky stream-bed was not good for fast riding.
He cantered across the pasture, skirting a small lake, and drew up among the trees near the edge of the bluff that dropped off into the wide river bottom. He heard no sound from below.
Weaving through the trees, ducking for the lowest branches, he pulled up suddenly. Below him were some old beaver ponds, with many fallen logs, some dead trees standing, and the smooth, clear water of the ponds. As he watched he could see the widening ripple where a beaver swam… unalarmed.
Turning his head he saw the cabins, and near them, the wagon. No horses or mules, no movement, no sign of life. Perhaps the merest shadow of smoke from the campfire near the wagon.
The beaver was working away, undisturbed.
He listened, and thought he detected a faint splashing. He glanced at the pond… the beaver was gone.
Several marmots were in sight, bustling brown bundles of fur, playing on the green grass below. One of them was within thirty feet of the house.
It was empty then.
Duncan McKaskel, his wife, and son were gone.
Where?
A faint sound reached him and he glanced downstream.
They were in sight now, riding through the scattered trees beyond the beaver ponds, partly shadowed by the cottonwoods, the narrow-leaved trees of the high country. They emerged on the far bank, and scattering out, picked their way across.
In a sudden rush, they swept up to the house and leaped from their saddles. Red Hyle was first at the door. He emerged at the rear door, glancing all around, swearing.
Dee Mantle had gone for the wagon. He could be heard moving around in the wagon, then he thrust his head out. “Hell, there’s nothing here! Not a damn thing!”